


Lullaby-verse

by beetle



Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: LOTR, M/M, The Hobbit - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 07:48:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the LJ hobbit_kink meme prompt: "Happy Ending AU where Bilbo moves to Erebor and becomes Thorin's consort. Bilbo finds out that he's pregnant. Thorin pampers him a bit because there is nothing to good for his consort and his child. Bilbo, however, doesn't want to cause much trouble and keeps to himself the first few months of his pregnancy. Until one day he is walking the halls back to his room and passes out. Bonus Thorin finding out about the fainting incident and assuming the worst."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Frerin's Lullaby

**Author's Note:**

> Notes/Warnings: AU. Set post the successful retaking of Erebor by one year. Mpreg.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own this fine franchise.

Thorin walks the halls of the royal wing beaming at everyone he comes across. Some smile back, but most simply look at their king as if he's gone insane and hurry by, avoiding further eye contact.  
  
But that's alright. Everything's alright.  
  
Carrying the tray with lunch—his consort's—Thorin strides along, till he comes to the double doors of their chambers. The pair of guards standing sentry duty come to attention and the one on the left opens the door for Thorin.  
  
Stepping inside, Thorin looks around their morning room and sees Bilbo sitting at his writing desk, head down, scribbling something in one of his leather-bound books. His hair—which Thorin had all but begged him to grow out—curls past his shoulders, and the fringe gets brushed out of his face every five seconds or so.  
  
He's obviously not yet left their rooms for the day, because he's still in his white sleeping gown. The gown, once slightly baggy on his frame, is now tighter across the rounded curve of his midsection.  
  
Thorin smiles, his hands already itching to caress that curve. Behind him, the guard closes the doors.  
  
Thorin watches Bilbo write for a little while longer, before clearing his throat. Bilbo looks up distractedly, and smiles when he sees Thorin.  
  
“One of these days, I'm going to put a bell around your neck,” he says playfully, and Thorin carries the tray over to the writing table and his consort. He places it just next to Bilbo's book, glancing briefly at the hobbit's neat handwriting.  
  
“One of these days, you won't get so wrapped up in your writing that you don't hear the guard open the door.”  
  
“Well, someone has to record the tale of your noble deeds—it may as well be me.” Bilbo tilts his face up for a kiss and Thorin happily obliges. Bilbo tastes, as always, of sweet tea and milk. And, of course, of himself, a different sweetness altogether, one that tea can never cover or measure up to.  
  
Thorin's hand goes to the curve of Bilbo's stomach, where their child rests . . . so to speak. “How is our son, today?”  
  
Bilbo laughs wryly. “Surprisingly, he's not pretending his father's a football. He's moving around in there, but not kicking me.”  
  
And indeed, Thorin can feel flutters of motion under his hand—not the dramatic kicks and jabs the boy usually gets up to, but definite movement. And, as always, his heart feels as if it's full to overflowing.  
  
 _Their_  child is healthy and strong. A  _fighter_.  
  
He kisses Bilbo again, briefly, and cups the beloved face in his hand. Bilbo's smooth skin feels so soft against Thorin's rough palm. “I've brought you lunch.”  
  
Bilbo's smile is wry. “Thorin, love, you're the King Under the Mountain. You don't bring hobbits lunch. Even pregnant ones.”  
  
“I  _am_  the King under the Mountain, and that means I do whatever I want. Even and especially if that means bringing lunch to pregnant hobbits.” Thorin smiles when Bilbo rolls his eyes.  
  
“At least tell me you didn't  _recess Court again_  just to bring me lunch?”  
  
Thorin laughs. “Alright. I didn't recess court again just to bring you lunch.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
“Except that I did.”  
  
Bilbo sighs, but can't quite hide his smile. “You're very silly for a king, you know?”  
  
Smiles that sweet have to be kissed. And Thorin does. “And you're very serious for a hobbit,” he murmurs, pulling Bilbo to his feet and into his arms. Bilbo goes happily,  _hmm_ ing and chuckling. Suddenly, Thorin sweeps his consort up into his arms, ignoring the startled yelp and clutching of his neck, and carries him into their bedroom. Bilbo laughs.  
  
“I thought I was going to be eating lunch,” he says, nuzzling Thorin's cheek. Thorin shivers, and places Bilbo down in their bed gently, looking down into eyes that shine up into his own.  
  
“You  _are_  going to be eating lunch.  _In bed_. And then, you're taking a nap,” Thorin says firmly. Bilbo sighs, leaning back into the pillows, one hand going to his stomach.  
  
“Love, I'm pregnant, not infirm.”  
  
“You need your rest. The healers said—“  
  
Bilbo rolls his eyes again. “I know what the healers said, and I  _have_  been resting. I spend almost all my time in our rooms, either writing or sleeping. It was fine, at first, but now, I'm getting a bit restless. And I miss our friends.” Bilbo pouts.  
  
Thorin sighs, sitting on the edge of the bed and taking Bilbo's free hand in his own. “Have them visit you here.”  
  
“But I feel so strange doing that. Making them take time out of their busy lives just to visit a pregnant hobbit who's got nothing to talk about  _but_  being pregnant.” Bilbo sighs. “And they're all off leading their own lives—Bofur and Kili are getting married soon, aren't they?”  
  
“Aye. Soon-ish. Not until after the baby's born.” Thorin leans in and kisses Bilbo's forehead. “They want you to be at the wedding.”  
  
“So they're going to wait another four months? Just for me?” Bilbo groans. “They shouldn't hold up their lives like that! Thorin, make them get married sooner!”  
  
His eyebrows shooting up, Thorin shakes his head. “Dearest, I can do many things, but I cannot make them get married any sooner than they will. Especially since, through some miracle,  _Kili_ hasn't turned up pregnant, as well.”  
  
Bilbo pulls Thorin's hand to his stomach. He's always claimed that Thorin's hand on his stomach calms him. And Thorin is certainly willing to indulge him in this, too. There's very little he wouldn't indulge his consort in.  
  
He rubs Bilbo's stomach soothingly for a few minutes, till Bilbo's smile turns mischievous and he pushes Thorin's hand lower. Then lower, still.  
  
Thorin's smile is slow and equally mischievous, and he strokes where the stroking is good. “I seem to remember this is exactly how things went this morning. And I was late to a very important meeting. . . .”  
  
Bilbo pouts again. “I made it worth your while, didn't I?”  
  
“Mm, that you did,” Thorin murmurs, standing up to kick off his boots, then straddling Bilbo's thighs, replacing his hand. He leans down to kiss his consort gently. “Balin, of course, knew why I was late—everyone did, thanks to all the love-marks you left on my neck.”  
  
Bilbo's grin isn't even remotely remorseful. He wraps his arms about Thorin's neck and pulls him close. “Just marking my territory.”  
  
“I thought that might be the case.”  
  
Then they're kissing again, long and lingering, Thorin still stroking, stroking, stroking, till Bilbo stiffens against him, then relaxes, his arms falling away from Thorin's neck as he moans happily. Thorin sits up and undoes his trousers quickly, spreading his consort's spend over his own aching hardness. Bilbo blinks up at him hazily, then turns onto his side, pulling up his sleeping gown. Thorin spoons up behind him, his body pressed against Bilbo's. He buries his face in Bilbo's sweet-smelling hair then kisses his shoulder.  
  
Bilbo pulls his right leg up as far as he can, and Thorin inserts his hand between their bodies, his fingers gently seeking out his consort's tight, fluttering heat. He moans when his finger slides in more easily than he'd expected—Bilbo's still relaxed and stretched from this morning, he supposes—and he prepares his partner quickly but carefully.  
  
Sooner, rather than later, he's lining himself up to that sweet, welcoming heat and pushing in slowly, Bilbo's name a sigh on his lips.  
  
“Yes, oh, please,  _yes_ ,” Bilbo breathes, reaching back to pull Thorin's hand off his hip and to his stomach, where their fingers link. Under their hands, the child is at rest, for once, his movements few and far between, sluggish and sleepy.  
  
Thorin kisses Bilbo's neck, leaving some love-marks of his own and Bilbo giggles. “Now, everyone who sees us'll know what we were up to!”  
  
“Just marking my territory,” Thorin says, breathlessly, unapologetically, as he chases the secret heat at the core of Bilbo, lost to that slick, clutching grip of the body he knows better than his own.  
  
When at last, Thorin achieves his release with a soft, satisfied grunt, Bilbo reaches back to caress Thorin's cheek with shaking fingers. “That was  _lovely_ , my king,” he sighs dreamily. Thorin kisses those fingers.  
  
“It was, indeed, that, my consort.” Thorin slowly, carefully separates their bodies. Bilbo gasps, but not quite in discomfort, then rolls onto his back to look up at Thorin, his eyes dancing, but weary.  
  
“The child's sleeping,” he says softly, yawning himself. “Maybe . . . maybe you were right about the nap. . . .”  
  
Thorin widens his eyes in mock-surprise. “Me? Right about something? Surely you jest!” Then he laughs when Bilbo swats his arm. He rolls out of bed and stands up, pulling up his trousers. “But there'll be plenty of time to nap  _after_  lunch, my love.”  
  
“Hmm . . . plenty,” Bilbo agrees absently, yawning again as Thorin steps into his boots. “If the child really  _is_  a boy . . . I think Frerin would be a wonderful name for him. Don't you think so?”  
  
Thorin pauses in the midst of getting his right foot in its boot. He looks at his consort, surprised. Bilbo's sleepy eyes are shining, unguarded, and warm.  
  
“I think . . . I think that would be a fine name for the lad,” Thorin says finally, gruffly, shoving his foot into the boot and looking away. The backs of his eyes sting and he doesn't quite know what to do with himself. Then he catches sight of the large silver tray in their morning room, on Bilbo's writing desk.  
  
“Lunch!” he states, striding out of their bedroom to get the tray. When he comes back, smiling, Bilbo's sound asleep, one hand under his cheek, the other on his stomach.  
  
Thorin's smile softens into something none of his other kin nor comrades have ever seen, and he places the tray on Bilbo's night table—it barely fits. Then he watches his consort sleep for long minutes.  
  
Finally, he kisses Bilbo's forehead, and the gentle curve of his stomach, then makes his way back to Court.  
  


*

  
  
Thorin is working in his office somewhat later than he plans to—no matter what else, he always tries to have dinner with Bilbo, but now, it time and past for Bilbo to be abed—when there's a knock on the door, and it opens before he can even bid the person on the other side enter.  
  
It's Kili. And he looks—rather worried.  
  
Thorin frowns. He'd last seen Kili a mere few hours ago, in Court, along with his brother. “Nephew.”  
  
Kili opens his mouth, and nothing comes out at first. Then he's babbling something about Bilbo coming to visit him and Bofur in their quarters this evening and dinner and Bilbo refusing their offer to walk him back to his and Thorin's chambers and a maid finding Bilbo unconscious halfway there—  
  
Thorin's up and around his desk, grabbing Kili's shoulders, shaking his nephew just a little so he stops talking. Kili's dark eyes meet Thorin's own guiltily, worriedly, shining with unshed tears. Thorin feels a great, sudden pain within his chest, but he ignores it. “Have you sent for healers?”  
  
“Aye, the maid told the guards and they went to rouse the healers. The only reason Bofur and I found out was because we went after him to walk him back anyway. Stubborn hobbit.” Kili shakes his head. “Bofur carried him back to your chambers, and when I left to come get you, the healers were just arriv—“  
  
But Thorin's pushed Kili to the side and is running flat out for his chambers and his consort.  
  


*

  
  
When Thorin gets to his chambers, the elderly healers, one male, one female, are in the morning room speaking in grave tones. But then, they always speak in grave tones.  
  
Still, Thorin goes ice-cold all over and rushes past them, into his and Bilbo's bedchamber. . . .  
  
Looking small, pale and fragile in the center of the large bed, Bilbo is not only alive, he's  _awake_ , and chatting with Bofur, who's sitting on the left edge of the bed and holding Bilbo's hand.  
  
“Thorin!” Bilbo says when he notices his husband standing in the doorway. He tries to sit up, his face getting somehow paler from even that small exertion. Thorin hurries over to the bed and sits on the right edge, putting one hand on Bilbo's shoulder.  
  
“Don't,” he says gently, barely exerting any of his own strength to keep Bilbo prone. Bilbo looks up at him, brow furrowed, but stops trying to sit up. His face- looks wan and peaked—still lovely, but more vulnerable than ever. There are faint grey circles around his eyes and his lips are a pink too pale to be healthy. “You are . . . alright?”  
  
Bilbo smiles tiredly. “I'm fine. I just had a wee bit of a fainting spell. I came out of it soon enough. Scared the bloody hell out of a maid, or so I'm told.”  
  
Thorin takes Bilbo's hand and kisses the palm, then holds it to his cheek, the backs of his eyes stinging once more. He lays his head gently on Bilbo's stomach, a soft sob escaping him when the he feels agitated motion against his face.  
  
“I'll just . . . leave you two alone, shall I?” Bofur stands up carefully, squeezing Bilbo's hand. “Be well, Master Baggins. And Kili and I will be by to visit you as soon as you're well enough.”  
  
“Oh, pah, there's nothing wrong with me  _now_!” Bilbo asserts, freeing his hand to run it over Thorin's hair. “Nothing that a little company won't cure.”  
  
“Well, we'll see what we can arrange in future. You and Frerin take care,” Bofur says quietly. Then—presumably with a bow for Thorin—he's gone.  
  
Bilbo goes on petting Thorin's hair, as if  _Thorin's_  the one who needs comforting.  
  
Eventually, Thorin looks up at Bilbo, the tears that'd been stinging the backs of his eyes now rolling freely down his face. Bilbo's own face creases in concern and he reaches out to catch Thorin's tears with clammy, shaking fingers.  
  
“I thought you and Frerin were—“ Thorin can't even say it. Instead, he lays his face on Bilbo's stomach again, feeling each and every agitated kick and taking it as a sign that all is well, and all will be well, and all manner of things will be well.  
  
“I—I honestly don't know what came over me, Thorin,” Bilbo says in a small, guilty voice, his hand combing through Thorin's hair again. “I was fine one moment, a little winded, but fine. Then I got so  _dizzy_ , and everything went black. . . .  
  
“I didn't mean to scare you,” he finishes, and Thorin looks up at him, his face still wet, his vision still blurry with tears as yet unshed. “I guess I'm not as strong as I thought I was.”  
  
“Strong enough to carry an heir of Durin,” Thorin says proudly, and Bilbo laughs, tears rolling down his own face.  
  
“Well, apparently  _not_.” He laughs ruefully. “I've been ordered on bed-rest for the next four months. Not to have any stress at all. No more walking about. No more anything.”  
  
Thorin nods. “That often happens in dwarf pregnancies. They can be hard on the mother . . . or the father. There's often a period of bed-rest toward the end of the pregnancy—“  
  
“Yes, toward the  _end_ , not halfway through!” Bilbo exclaims, wiping impatiently at his face. “Some father I'm turning out to be. Too weak to walk from one end of the royal wing to the other.”  
  
“You are fairing rather well in this pregnancy, young hobbit,” a voice says from the door. Thorin and Bilbo both look up to see the healers in the doorway of their bedroom. It was the female healer who'd spoken. “For one who is not of our race, the carrying of a dwarf child often takes its toll sooner and more dramatically than it has with you.”  
  
Thorin and Bilbo share a glance, then look back at the healers. “So, this fainting spell . . . it would have happened sooner or later, anyway? Even if I hadn't been . . . strutting around like an idiot?” Bilbo asks, guilt and hope warring in his voice. Thorin takes his hand, squeezing it.  
  
“The fainting spell may not have happened, but you would likely have had to be put on bed-rest within the next few weeks,” the male healer says, shrugging. “Carrying a dwarf child is . . . not easy.”  
  
“No, no it's not,” Bilbo admits softly, closing his eyes and putting his free hand on his stomach. “But whatever I have to do to keep Frerin healthy . . . just tell me and I'll do it.”  
  
“So will I,” Thorin says, wiping his face and sitting up straight. Tears won't solve anything, and neither will feeling guilty. “Tell us what we must do.”  
  
The healers smile in unison.   
  


*

  
  
It's after midnight before the last of the royal herbalists and the two healers leave Thorin and Bilbo's chambers.  
  
Thorin closes the door behind them, and walks back to their bedchamber, holding a piece of parchment as long as his arm, with lists and instructions and cautions written in tiny, crabbed print. He mouths what he reads as he closes the door behind him.  
  
“What's that?” Bilbo asks sleepily from the bed. Thorin looks up, smiling a little.  
  
“Instructions on the care and feeding of pregnant hobbits.”  
  
“Ah. . . .” Bilbo laughs a little and pats the bed. “Come lay down with me. Keep me company.”  
  
Thorin rolls the parchment up and approaches the bed. The parchment goes where the lunch tray had gone earlier and Thorin kicks off his boots and sits on the bed gingerly. Bilbo, who's still rather pale, rolls his eyes. “Come on, love, I'm not made of egg shells.  _Hold me_.”  
  
Thorin sighs, but lays down, careful not to jostle or upset Bilbo, and takes his consort in his arms. Bilbo exhales, his formerly tense body relaxing. Thorin kisses his hair, inhaling deeply for several moments, before letting out his breath in pure relief.  
  
“I thought I'd lost you and Frerin,” he admits, and Bilbo turns his head so that he's looking up at Thorin.  
  
“Never,” he says with a surety that Thorin envies. That he wishes would replace the gnawing fear that's taken up residence within him over the past few hours. “Frerin and I love you far too much to leave you, Thorin. This was just a . . . a bump in the road. Nothing more. He and I will both be fine. You'll see.”  
  
Thorin's arms close around Bilbo a little tighter—but not  _too_  tight. “Promise me that, Bilbo Baggins. Promise me that . . . you and Frerin will never leave me.”  
  
“I promise,” Bilbo says, yawning. “You'll always have us, love.”  
  
And even though Thorin knows Bilbo cannot possibly keep such a promise as  _always_ , he feels comforted, nonetheless.  
  
And in the silence that follows, Thorin begins to hum . . . a lullaby that his own mother used to sing to his brother Frerin when he was a bairn. Now, the lullaby belongs to another Frerin.  
  
“Mm . . . you have such a beautiful voice, love. I've always thought so,” Bilbo mumbles, sounding more asleep than awake. His entire body is relaxed against Thorin's, and one hand placed gently on Bilbo's stomach shows that even Frerin's gotten sleepy, his motions grown sluggish once more.  
  
Bilbo's hand comes up to cover Thorin's own, and he sighs.  
  
Shortly thereafter, his breathing's evened out and the hand on Thorin's is lax with sleep.  
  
But still Thorin hums Frerin's lullaby and holds his consort. Into the wee hours of the morning, he keeps vigil over mate and child, thankful for them both and their continued health, and wondering what the future will bring.


	2. Half-Breed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the LJ hobbit_kink meme prompt: "Thorin and Bilbo living in Erebor and have a young child. Bilbo is rather happy with the life. Of course there is always that person/people that have prejudice and they make some rather rude comments about the royal consort and the half-breed child. What they don't know is that Bilbo one days over hears the comments and is rather upset and angry about it. Bonus Bilbo is pregnant again and he's concerned that this child will deal with the same prejudice his first child does. (He loves his children and he doesn't want them to deal with hateful words.) Double Bonus Bilbo confronts the person making comments and Thorin hears about it later (except he doesn't hear why Bilbo was yelling just that he got angry for no reason). Thorin questions his husband later on and Bilbo tells him what happened. It makes Thorin angry because he is king and how dare someone insult his family. TL;DR- There is prejudice over Thorin's and Bilbo's hybrid child."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: AU. Set post the successful retaking of Erebor by four years. A sequel to Frerin's Lullaby. MPREG.
> 
> Disclaimer: Sure. I own everything. Including the Taj Mahal. Not the structure, the band.

Bilbo walks down the corridor from the royal wing, to the the throne room, where morning Court is being held. One hand is on the just-beginning-to-show swell of his abdomen, the other is holding the hand of his and Thorin's oldest child, Frerin, who skips along at his Da's side talking brightly of—who knows? At two and one half years old, most of his speech is still baby-gabble, the rest of it a mix of Khuzdul and common speech—bare feet slapping against the stone floors (he has Thorin's feet, not Bilbo's, but he nonetheless puts up such a fight when it comes to wearing his boots that most of the time, Bilbo just doesn't have the energy to fight him on it).  
  
Sometimes, Thorin's really the only one who can get the boy to do anything, so strong-willed is he, even at this young age. But he simply  _adores_  his  _Adad_  and looks up to him, and wants, it's obvious, nothing more than to be just like him. So if Frerin sees Thorin wearing boots, for a few hours, anyway, he, too, will wear boots. Will practically  _beg_  to wear them.  
  
Bilbo rubs his abdomen and wonders if their second child, little Thrain-the-third-or-Malonna will be as headstrong and intractable as his or her older brother.  
  
“Da?”  
  
Bilbo looks down at Frerin and smiles. It's like looking at Thorin's face in miniature, except for the pointed ears poking out from the sable curls that run riot over Frerin's head. And the blue of his eyes may be a half-shade lighter than Thorin's. “Yes, love? What is it?”  
  
Frerin holds his arms up and out and pouts. The pout, Bilbo has been told, by none other than Thorin, is all his  _Da's_.  
  
“Ah, so, you want to be carried, is that it?”  
  
Frerin nods solemnly. “Court is far away,” he says glumly, in his oddly formal Khuzdul, which is far better than his grasp common speech, and certainly better than the scraps of elvish he's picked up from Bilbo's studies or from when the elves make state visits (the elves have a tendency to spoil the young prince rotten with gifts when they visit . . . and Lord Elrond, especially, seems fond of Frerin, and vice versa).  
  
“Yes, love, Court  _is_  a bit of a walk . . . but I can't carry you there. It's not good for your little brother or sister for Da to be lifting you up anymore,” Bilbo says apologetically, wondering how much of that Frerin understands. But he needn't have worried, because Frerin glowers at Bilbo's barely-showing stomach and says: “Bad baby!”  
  
Bilbo bursts out laughing, and goes laboriously down to one knee to look Frerin in the eye. His son is glaring self-righteously at him with Thorin's eyes and that adorable glower. “Oh, you,” Bilbo pulls the boy to him for a hug and a kiss. “Just because I can't pick you up, anymore, doesn't mean I love you any less. It just means you're getting to be a big boy, now. You're not a baby, anymore,” he adds in his own halting Khuzdul, which,  _officially_ , he doesn't know how to speak, read, or write.  
  
 _Unofficially_  . . . he knows enough to get by in Erebor and New Dale without depending on his friends and his husband to translate for him. Thorin has seen to that.  
  
Frerin's wiry little arms wrap around Bilbo's neck and Frerin sniffs, his face buried in Bilbo's neck. “Am, too,” he asserts, his small hands clenching in Bilbo's curls. “ _I'm_  the baby.”  
  
“No, now, you're the big brother. You're the one who's job it will be to guide and protect this little one. To make sure he or she is safe, and that they know all the fun games to play.” Bilbo frees Frerin's little arms and hands—strong, they are, even at this age, even despite the deceptive slightness of his frame—from his hair and around his neck, and leans back so he can place the boy's hands on his abdomen. Fortuitously, at that moment, a flurry of kicks starts up under Frerin's and Bilbo's hands.  
  
“ _WOW_!” Frerin says loudly, laughing, moving his hands around to follow the trajectory of motion across Bilbo's stomach. “That's the baby?”  
  
“Yup. And once, you were like that, in my tummy, kicking up a storm, not letting me sleep.” Bilbo kisses the tip of Frerin's freckled nose—another thing he gets from his Da . . . more specifically from the Took side of Bilbo's family. “But that was a long time ago. Now, you're a big, strong, smart boy, and you'll be the best brother in the world to your little brother or sister, right?”  
  
Frerin nods, his hand still moving across Bilbo's abdomen. Not that there's much abdomen to move across, as yet. He's only twenty-one weeks along, and this babe is, according to the healers last assessment, going to be smaller than Frerin had been. Though likely no less healthy.  
  
At least, that had been their most educated guess as of . . . nearly a month ago. Bilbo hasn't been terribly diligent about going to the healers, of late. He's afraid, he supposes, of getting bad news, when everything in his life is going so right. . . .  
  
Bilbo forces such thoughts away, unwilling to taint his time with Frerin with grim what-ifs. He grins, and he and Frerin stay like that until the kicking stops a few minutes later.  
  


*

  
  
They arrive at Court just as it's ending, Thorin delivering his ruling in the case of a miner against his mining company. Apparently, there'd been a cave-in in which the miner had lost his brother, and now, he was suing for losses and damages.  
  
Bilbo and Frerin wait at the back of the crowd for the verdict, and for the people to disperse. When the crowd does start to break up after the verdict—Thorin looks so  _kingly_  when he does decides a case, and Bilbo is always rather . . . aroused seeing him this way, rendered breathless and wide-eyed—dwarves milling and turning around when Thorin dismisses the mining company's countersuit for negligence.  
  
The guard is at the edges of the crowd, leading everyone out. As the dwarves pass Bilbo and Frerin, some smile and nod, others frown and look away. Bilbo's got quite used to either reaction, though the latter one still makes him wish he could spend all his time in their rooms, seeing no one but family and friends.  
  
But Frerin deserves as much of the world as his Da can give him. If that means weathering slights and disapproval, so be it.  
  
The group of dwarves representing the mining company are the last to pass Bilbo and Frerin, their leader taking the time out of his grumbling about the outcome of the case to sneer—actually  _sneer_  at Bilbo, and mutter in Khuzdul about the half _ling_  and  _its_  half- _breed_  spawn.  
  
“And I hear tell it's pregnant  _again_ ,” the dwarf sniffs, eyeing Bilbo's midsection. And the hand not holding Frerin's immediately goes to his stomach as a wave of pure rage takes him. It's not the first time he's overheard such insults, but for some reason, this time, it makes Bilbo angrier than he's ever been. For Frerin's sake, and the sake of the babe Bilbo now carries.  
  
“I beg your pardon,” he says in crisp Khuzdul, the words he wants coming steadily and more quickly than he's used to. “But would you mind repeating what you just said? My Khuzdul is lamentably poor, but it sounds like you just insulted my son.”  
  
The leader's eyes widen and he glances at his cohorts, who avoid his gaze and hurry on with slight bows to Bilbo, who barely notices. Though he does notice, out of the corner of his eye, Thorin standing up in concern, and approaching them.  
  
“I—I meant no insult . . .  _your highness_.” The leader says, his face turning red—less with embarrassment, Bilbo senses, than with repressed anger.  
  
“You owe my son an apology, sir.” Bilbo says quietly, still in Khuzdul. “My son  _and_  me.”  
  
The leader looks incredulous, then scoffs. “Just because you're warming the king's bed, you little foreign catamite, doesn't make you one of us. The same goes for this abomination you and everyone else has the nerve to call a  _prince of Erebor_ —“  
  
The sudden crack of Bilbo's hand across the dwarf's face surprises everyone present, and it echoes quite loudly, even in the cavernous throne room. “How  _dare_  you!” Bilbo seethes coldly, though quietly enough that it doesn't carry. Thorin is now half-way to them, frowning as he stalks along, majestic in his crown and robe. But the guards are closer, and one of them comes up to the leader and puts a hand on his arm. However he addresses himself to Bilbo when he speaks.  
  
“Shall I put him out, your highness?”  
  
Bilbo tilts his chin up, and glares at the leader, who's paled, but for the red palm-print of Bilbo's hand on his cheek. “Yes. That's what we do with trash, isn't it, Osin?”  
  
And with that, Bilbo spins on his heel and marches out of the throne room first, Frerin hurrying along on his little legs, trying to keep up.  
  


*

  
  
Thorin finds them, not too much later, in the their bedchamber. Bilbo is curled up in bed around a sleeping Frerin, stroking the boy's soft curls and watching him sleep.  
  
Bilbo can feel his husband watching them thoughtfully from the doorway, and doesn't say anything for several minutes. Thorin is the one to break this silence.  
  
“Are you going to tell me what that was about?” he asks finally, entering the bedroom proper and closing the door behind him. Bilbo sighs and closes his eyes.  
  
“I . . . lost my temper. I won't let it happen again,” Bilbo says, the backs of his eyes stinging with tears of frustration and helplessness at the  _unfairness_  of what Frerin and this as yet unborn child will find themselves facing as they grow older. “I'm sorry.”  
  
The bed dips as Thorin sits behind Bilbo. “Duly noted. But that doesn't tell me  _why_  you felt the need to slap the chief of one of the royal mining companies in the face.”  
  
“It was nothing. A misunderstanding, that's all,” Bilbo lies, and Thorin sighs, kissing his shoulder and curling up behind him, the bigger spoon to Bilbo and Frerin's smaller spoons.  
  
“I've never once seen you lose your temper so, Bilbo Baggins. And certainly not over a misunderstanding. Tell me what was said.” Thorin kisses the tip of Bilbo's pointed ear, his hand sliding over Bilbo's hip, to his abdomen. “Tell me.”  
  
Bilbo blinks as tears roll down his cheek and nose. “He called our son an  _abomination_.”  
  
Behind him, Thorin stiffens. “He  _what_?”  
  
Bilbo laughs bitterly. “You heard me, Thorin. He called our son an abomination—never mind what he called  _me_. I can take whatever they dish out, but Frerin . . . he's just a boy. Just a  _baby_. _My_  baby, and he doesn't deserve to be called the things people like that call him.”  
  
Thorin is silent behind him for most of a minute. “ _People like that_ ,” he rumbles flatly, without inflection. “Which implies that there have been others who've spoken ill of you and our son.”  
  
Bilbo sighs once more. “Would it surprise you if I said yes? That there have been more slights and insults than you can imagine—almost always said just within earshot, or in Khuzdul simple enough for me to understand? And for  _Frerin_  to someday understand, when he's older?”  
  
Glancing over his shoulder, he catches a look of pure rage, of the kind he'd felt earlier, on Thorin's face.  
  
“How long has this been going on?” Thorin demands, and Bilbo sighs again.  
  
“Since the beginning, Thorin. But what did you expect, making a hobbit your consort, then letting him bear your children?” Bilbo looks back at Frerin, their beautiful, wonderful, miracle of a son. “There are those who aren't happy with your decision to elevate me to the rank of consort. And those who will never accept a half-blood dwarf as their prince. They've never exactly hidden their feelings—at least not from Frerin and I—and today was just another example of that, only . . . I just couldn't take it anymore. Just couldn't take the thought of my babies growing up being despised for who their Da is.”  
  
And with that, Bilbo hugs Frerin closer, more hot, scalding tears rolling down his face. In his arms, Frerin stirs a little, then slips back into a deeper sleep.  
  
Thorin's arm hesitantly comes around Bilbo, as if he's afraid Bilbo will reject him. But when Bilbo doesn't, Thorin pulls his consort and children closer, offering silent comfort and support. He doesn't promise to put an end to the intolerance and cruel words. Doesn't promise to open the eyes of every idiot who can't see their little family for what it is.  
  
Doesn't promise things he can't possibly deliver.  
  
Bilbo is grateful for that and, for some reason, comforted.  
  


*

  
  
Drained, Bilbo spends the rest of the day in bed, even after Frerin wakes up. Thorin takes Frerin to visit his Uncles Kili and Bofur, and their new babe, Micla. Then he returns to their chambers and lies in bed with Bilbo till he falls asleep.  
  
When Bilbo awakens, it's late, nearly six in the evening, by the clock. Thorin is gone and the child has started kicking again.  _Hard_.  
  
Groggy and disoriented, Bilbo eases himself out of bed, and before he can get to his feet properly, he's hit by a wave of stomach cramps and a dizzy spell. He immediately starts feeling faint and the cold wash of panic that sends through him rouses him somewhat.  
  
The last time he'd felt like this he'd been ordered on bed-rest for the last four months of his first pregnancy. And during that four months, he'd had to take every disgusting herbal potion and tonic known to dwarves, not to mention wear all sorts of poultices just to keep Frerin, who was, even before his birth, an excitable child, calm and still.  
  
And in the end, the birth had still been . . . rocky. Both he and Frerin had nearly died. Bilbo, at the end of his strength and in intense pain, had begged the healers to save the baby. Thorin, who'd been by his side the whole time, had held his hand and, tears rolling down his gaunt, tired face, had urged Bilbo to remember his promise to  _always_  be there. To be strong and to  _fight_. . . .  
  
Tears springing to his eyes now, Bilbo puts a hand on his stomach, rubbing soothingly, frowning when the child within doesn't so much as slow down its movements.  
  
As a matter of fact, the child has been highly motive since . . . since Court, that morning.  
  
 _It's time, Bilbo Baggins_ , he tells himself sternly, kicking  _himself_  for not accepting it sooner.  _Time to see the healers and get put on bed-rest, or whatever they prescribe. You're not doing as well as you were when you were carrying Frerin. And whatever's wrong, it's starting a month earlier. . . ._  
  
Bilbo pushes himself to his feet, ignoring the cramps and the dizziness, and shuffles out into their morning room, and to the door. It takes a short eternity to do so, but do it he does, leaning against the door for a few moments before he opens it.  
  
“Could one of you please get the healers?” he asks of Drur and Grur, the brothers who most often draw night sentry duty for his and Thorin's quarters.  
  
They both look at him, their eyes widening. Bilbo knows he must look a sight, for the way Drur takes off, and Grur's stolid face suddenly looks . . . worried.  
  
Then the worst cramp of all hits and he's falling forward, the world greying out. He knows Grur catches him and lifts him up, but that's all he knows for a while afterwards.  
  


*

  
  
When next Bilbo opens his eyes, it's to Thorin leaning over him looking concerned and grim.  
  
Bilbo groans as the room begins to spin and he feels a powerful nausea like he hasn't for nearly two months.  
  
But at least the cramps are gone.  
  
The cramps are—  
  
“Is the baby alright?” Bilbo asks frantically, pushing back the covers. He's naked, in their bed, and there's a large poultice over his stomach that smells strongly of fresh earth, licorice, and some kind of mint.  
  
“Yes, though it was a close call,” Thorin says softly, putting his hand over the poultice lightly, before pulling the covers back up. “Are  _you_  alright?”  
  
Bilbo looks around the spinning room. Both of the healers, whom he hasn't seen since the weeks just after he'd found out he was pregnant again, are there, at the foot of the bed.  
  
“I think that's a question for them, not me.” Bilbo sighs, closing his eyes. “The room is spinning and I feel as if I'm about to vomit, but the cramping has stopped.”  
  
The female healer nods. “The poultice has worked. It will calm the children and keep them from doing more internal damage than this pregnancy has already caused.”  
  
“Internal damage?” Thorin says, frowning.  
  
“ _Children_?” Bilbo demands, eyes wide with disbelief.  
  
The male healer nods. “There's precious little space in there for  _one_  motile child, let alone two. The cramping you were experiencing came about as a result of the children moving around, and while doing so jostling and bruising your other organs.”  
  
“They are small, but healthy, active babes,” the female healer adds with a small smile on her creased, wrinkled face. "The poultices, however, will render them . . . calmer, and less likely to move about so much. But bed-rest is required of  _you_ , for the poultices and potions to work. You must remain at rest so the  _children_  remain at rest.”  
  
“How did I know  _that_  was coming?” Bilbo snorts, closing his eyes. “So . . . I'm having twins?”  
  
“Yes,” both healers says, and Thorin takes Bilbo's hand, squeezing it before kissing it tenderly.  
  
“ _My love_ ,” he murmurs softly, and Bilbo opens his eyes, smiling wanly.  
  
“Well. I always wanted a large family,” he says wryly, and Thorin grins, kissing him. “Speaking of, where's Frerin?”  
  
“He's spending the night with Uncle Kili, Uncle Bofur, and Cousin Micla,” Thorin replies with a brief laugh. “Between getting Micla down for the night and just keeping up with Frerin's demands for more stories . . . they've got their work cut out for them.”  
  
Bilbo chuckles, his tired gaze shifting to the healers. “So, I suppose there's a list as long as Thorin's arm of things I'm supposed to eat and drink and have put on my stomach, right?”  
  
The male healer produces just such a list from the depths of his robe, a trick worthy of Gandalf. Bilbo sighs again as Thorin reaches out and takes it, and begins reading it to himself, lips moving slightly.  
  
“We will take our leave of you, now. But we  _will_  be back to see you tomorrow morning,” the male healer says like a threat. Or a maybe just a promise. Bilbo nods.  
  
“Tomorrow,” he says wearily. “I'll be here with bells on.”  
  


*

  
  
Thorin brings him dinner in bed—of course, that's how all dinners will be taken, for the next five months, Bilbo realizes with a sigh—and watches him pick at his food and shove it around the plate. And Bilbo tries to eat, for the sake of the child—the  _children_ , even though he has no appetite.  
  
Finally, he pushes the tray away, and Thorin takes it without speaking into the morning room. When he comes back into the bedchamber, it's to lay down next to Bilbo, and pull him gently, carefully into his arms.  
  
“You are  _beautiful_ , Bilbo Baggins,” he says quietly. “And so are our children. They will grow up with parents and a family who love and cherish them.”  
  
Bilbo looks up at Thorin, who's watching him attentively. “But we can't shelter them from the awful things some of the people say. Not forever. One day, they're going to come to us with questions, possibly in tears, and what will we tell them,  _then_ , Thorin?”  
  
Thorin squeezes him, but not too tightly. “We tell them the truth: that their Da and  _Adad_  loved each other so much, that they wanted to share that love with children. And that they've never regretted sharing that love for one single moment. That no matter what, they will always be proud of the children that they love so much, and that nothing anyone else says will be able to change that.”  
  
Bilbo blinks back tears and turns his face against Thorin's neck.  
  
“When you put it  _that_  way . . . the truth sounds pretty good,” he says around his heart, which has taken up temporary residence in his throat.  
  
“That truth will make a good, strong shield to protect them,” Thorin says, then sighs, himself. “No doubt, they will have to grow thicker skins than most children, but the truth of who they are, that they were created in love and the fact that every day of their lives will be spent in the arms of those whom they love and who love them back, will do more to inform who they become, than the natterings of their detractors.”  
  
“I hope so.” Bilbo says, clinging to his husband. Thorin kisses his forehead.  
  
“You'll see, my love. They'll be healthy, happy, and  _strong_.”  
  
“Mm . . . tell me more about our lives,” Bilbo says sleepily, yawning. “Tell me a story about you and me, and Frerin, Thrain, and Malonna. . . .”  
  
Thorin chuckles, his hand going to Bilbo's stomach again, resting lightly over the poultice and sheet. “Well, of course, this story starts with a hole in the ground,” he says quietly, and Bilbo closes his eyes again, picturing what Thorin's describing: “Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat, but a door unto the Mountain, and that means, above all things, safety and comfort. . . .”


	3. Big Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frerin looks after his siblings while Bilbo gives birth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: AU. Set post the successful retaking of Erebor by ten years. Mentions of Mpreg and birth.
> 
> Disclaimer: I didn't steal nothing from no one.

“Frerin, we're bored!”  
  
Frerin doesn't even look up from his elvish letters. He has to get them done if he wants to be free to go into New Dale with Uncle Ori this afternoon. Da and  _Adad_  had promised him he could go if he finished all his studies.  
  
“ _Freeeeeerrrrin. . . !_ ” Malonna whines, for both her and Thrain, and Frerin finally puts down his chalk and turns to face his little sister and brother. They're standing, hand in hand as always, next to his desk, big blue eyes wide, mouths pouty. Frerin sighs.  
  
“Can't you find something to do on your own? Or play with your own friends?”  
  
Malonna's pout intensifies. “Everyone else is away or busy,” she says in her tiny, precious voice. That voice has gotten her and Thrain (who, quite oppositely, almost  _never_  speaks) out of more trouble with Da and  _Adad_  than Frerin can keep track of. The only thing that's kept the unfairness of Malonna getting her way so often lately at bay is the fact that Malonna's reign of adorableness is coming to an end, very soon.  
  
When Da gives birth to Frerin's newest sibling there's every chance that their parents will be so wrapped up in the new babe that Malonna's antics will finally cease to be cute.  
  
Well, Frerin can dream, anyway.  
  
“You could go keep Da company for a while. He could tell you some stories. Or maybe you two could tell  _him_  some stories, for a change,” Frerin suggests, turning back to his slates and puzzling over his figures, now. He wishes Micla were there to help him. She's better at Figures and sums than Frerin is—though everyone knows Frerin's got the better memory for history and head for reading. That's one thing Da's always been insistent on: His children  _will_  know how to read every language they can speak at least as well as they can speak it.  
  
Though  _Adad_ 's the one who drills history into Frerin—or was, till Frerin got old enough to be tutored by Uncle Dori, who, despite his general air of kindliness, is a taskmaster when it comes to learning, no matter the subject. As proven by the revision work he gives, as if he thinks Frerin has no other activities lined up for his days. . . .  
  
“But  _Adad_  was the one who told us to go find something else to do and to leave him and Da alone for a while,” Malonna complains. “He said Da didn't feel well and then the healers were there, and  _Adad_  put us outside and told us to come play with you. Can  _you_  tell us a story Frerin?”  
  
Frowning, Frerin puts down his chalk and looks at his siblings again. Malonna looks put out, but Thrain's got tears in his big, dark blue eyes.  
  
Frerin kneels so that he and his little brother are eye to eye. “Did Da seem really sick? Like his stomach was hurting him?”  
  
Thrain thinks about it for a few moments, then nods, opening his mouth to  _speak_.  
  
“Da was  _cryin'_.” Thrain says, in a voice that, for now, is none too different from Malonna's. Surprised, Frerin looks at their sister, who also looks startled, and is frowning a bit, herself.  
  
“He  _was_ ,” she admits, nodding, herself. “But nobody would tell us what was happening.”  
  
“I think Da is  _dyin'_ ,” Thrain says, bursting into tears. Looking rather enraged, Malonna drops Thrain's hand to punch him in the arm. Which only makes him cry harder.  
  
“Is  _not_!” she declares, turning her angry gaze on Frerin. “Tell him, Frerin!”  
  
Sighing, Frerin puts a hand on each other their shoulders and leans closer, till they're both looking him in the eyes: one teary gaze and one determined gaze. “Da isn't dying. He's probably just having the new baby.”  
  
“See?” Malonna punches Thrain again, and Thrain punches her right back. Frerin separates them by dragging them a few feet apart.  
  
“But—but—what if he  _is_  dying?” Thrain suddenly asks quietly, looking into Frerin's eyes for blanket reassurance. Reassurance that, at the lofty age of eight and three quarters, Frerin's too old to believe in or give anymore.  
  
He knows from experience that there's only one way to make sure Da's alright. He'd done it himself, five years ago, when Malonna and Thrain were born. And now, he'll be doing it again, _with_  Malonna and Thrain.  
  
This is, he supposes, how traditions are born.  
  
“Come on, you two,” he says, standing up and holding out a hand to each of them. Malonna takes his right hand, while Thrain wipes his eyes and takes the left.  
  
Together, they march out of the playroom.  
  


*

  
  
A cry that Frerin recognizes as Da's goes up as they reach the royal chambers.  
  
Malonna and Thrain share a frightened glance that Frerin only barely notices. His eyes are on the tall, closed doors, and the guards blocking the way in.  
  
Drur and Grur. Frerin's favorite of the royal guard. They always have a kind word for Frerin and his siblings, or advice, or suggestions for games, or even, sometimes, candy or sweets their mum made.  
  
Now, they look grim and pale behind their beards. Grur is the one to speak first, as usual.  
  
“Our apologies, my Prince, but we can't be lettin' you or the little ones in, on the King's orders. And anyway, 'tis a harsh business going on in there, now, and you'll not be wanting to see it.”  
  
Frerin swallows and nods as another cry goes up and, instead of ending suddenly, like the last one had, this one trickles into sobs and pleas that Frerin is rather glad he can't make out.  
  
“We don't want to go in, we just want to be here, in case . . . just in case.” Frerin squeezes his siblings' hands. Malonna, at least, squeezes back.  
  
“Is Da having the new baby?” she asks, and Grur nods.  
  
“Aye, little Princess.” He kneels and looks her in the eye, much the way Frerin had. “It's a tough business, giving birth. No matter who's doing the birthing or how it's done. But this is your Da's third time, and he's an old hand at it, by now. He'll come through just fine.”  
  
Malonna stares at him hard for a few moments, then nods once, turning to Thrain, who's staring at the closed doors as if at the very gates of Hell. “See, Thrain? Da's not going to  _die_. That's just _silly_.”  
  
“He sure  _sounds_  like he is,” Thrain replies when another, badly-timed cry goes up from behind the doors. “Did he sound like that when  _we_  were born?”  
  
“Yes,” Frerin says, and when the twins look up at him, horrified, he shrugs. “And probably when I was born, too.”  
  
“I'm  _never_  having babies!” Malonna says adamantly, tossing her dark curls, and Thrain nods, doing the same. “Me neither!”  
  
Grur stands back up, and shares a small, knowing smile with his brother.  
  
Frerin, meanwhile, is eyeing the wall across from the doors and asks: “Is it alright, do you think, for us to wait over there?” He nods at the opposing wall, and Grur and Drur share another glance.  
  
“I, er, don't think your parents would want you sitting out here, listening to screams and that, all afternoon.”  
  
Thrain is the one to speak up, before Frerin or Malonna can, with a scowl and determination that would do his sister proud. “We're not going anywhere till we see our Da!”  
  
“That's right!” Malonna pipes up, for once following Thrain's lead.  
  
Grur and Drur glance at each other again, then back at the three siblings.  
  
“Well, we can hardly  _order_  you away . . . but we still can't let you in,” Grur says stolidly. “And wouldn't for all the mithril in this mountain.”  
  
Frerin makes a shallow, respectful bow to the two guards, one that his siblings copy. “Thank you, Master Grur and Master Drur.”  
  
“Thank you," Malonna says, rather humbly, for her. Thrain is quick, again, to copy her.  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
And with that, Frerin tugs his siblings back toward the wall, where they hunker down to wait.  
  
After some time, and a silence broken only by intermittent cries from their parents' chambers, Malonna tugs on Frerin's hand. When he looks at her, there are tears in her eyes.  
  
“Tell us a story, Frerin? A happy story?”  
  
Thrain perks up from his horrified, dejected little slump and tugs on Frerin's other hand. “Tell us the one about how Da bested those trolls!”  
  
Frerin smiles a little and puts his arms around his siblings' shoulders, leaning everybody back against the wall. “Alright, then,” he says, conjuring his best, most jaunty impersonation of Uncle Bofur—and indeed, this is Uncle Bofur's story he's borrowing—he settles in for the telling:  
  
“Once upon a time, there lived in the mountains, three trolls of hideous visage and even more hideous appetite. One day, when food had become noticeably scarce, these three trolls took it upon themselves to descend from their high places in the mountains, and into the farmlands and fields of men. . . .”  
  


*

  
  
Halfway through the story, Da's cries have stopped, and the twins, taking this to mean everything is alright, have fallen asleep in Frerin's arms.  
  
Frerin, however, still wide awake, knows better. There are, he knows, actually  _two_  possible reasons for Da's screaming to have stopped, and only one of them is a good one.  
  
And so, he waits silently, the twins tucked against him, for the doors to open, and Da's fate to be revealed.  
  
Occasionally, Grur, and even silent Drur, attempt to engage him in conversation—as a kindness, and a diversion, he recognizes—but he can never keep up his end of it, and eventually they simply let him be.  
  
Finally, after what feels like days of waiting—but what is likely just hours—Frerin is starting to nod off when the doors to his parents' chambers open, and his  _Adad_  comes out, wide, weary eyes going immediately to Frerin, as if he'd expected him to be there.  
  
 _Well,_  Frerin thinks tiredly.  _It_ is _tradition, after all._  
  
Freeing himself carefully from his siblings' embraces, he stands up and bows to his king. “Father,” he says, formally. Only to be scooped up into his  _Adad_ 's strong arms, kissed soundly on the cheek, and hugged tight.  
  
“Your Da is alright,”  _Adad_  whispers shakily. “A little worse for wear, but alright. And so is your baby brother. He's even smaller than Malonna and Thrain were, but he's got a powerful set of lungs on him!”  
  
Frerin hugs his father back as tight as his arms will allow and lets the stinging at the back of his eyes turn into tears that fall for a few moments only, before he's wiping them away. By the time _Adad_  puts him down, Frerin's eyes, though a little red, are dry. His father smiles proudly and cups Frerin's small face in his hand.  
  
“Come,” he says warmly, “Let's wake your siblings and tell them the news, eh?”  
  
Smiling, Frerin nods.  
  


*

  
  
“Now, you must be very quiet and not get too excited,”  _Adad_  says to the twins—who're still mostly asleep—he carries in his arms. “Your Da and brother are still recovering and need to be at rest as much as possible. Alright?”  
  
“Yes,  _Adad_ ,” the twins say automatically, simultaneously, and Frerin, who's walking at his father's side, his bare feet almost noiseless on the marble floor, is only a second behind.  
  
Then  _Adad_ 's nudging open the doors to their bedchamber.  
  
There are two healers, conferring quietly, grimly in one corner, near the bed. Near the door, there are two women wearing white aprons that are far too pristine to have been worn during the birth. And they're hustling linens into laundry sacks, on which, Frerin can just make out splashes of bright crimson that make him shudder.  
  
And, in the center of the room is his fathers' bed. Next to the bed, is a bassinet in which something moves and twitches and occasionally lets out a thin, but piercing cry.  
  
Then his eyes fall on his Da, and all that is forgotten. He wants to be Malonna and Thrain's age again, so he can be excused for running to the bed and throwing himself in his other father's arms. He wants to just hide in those loving arms and forget about bloody linens and grim-faced healers.  
  
But then he  _really_  gets a look at his Da, and all thoughts of throwing himself into those arms evaporate. For Frerin's never seen his Da looks so pale, so fragile, so sickly.  
  
“Frerin,” Da says weakly, sleepily smiling. He's afloat in a sea of pillows and fresh linen and looks so  _small_. Smaller than usual. “My first baby. . . .”  
  
“Hullo, Da,” Frerin says shyly, approaching the bed as quietly and as carefully as he can, while _Adad_  hangs back in the doorway with the waking twins. The walk there takes forever, but he's eventually at his Da's side, sitting gingerly on the bed.  
  
Da's face is so . . . pale and peaked, with dark circles around his eyes and hollows below his cheekbones.  
  
This pregnancy has been harder on his Da than the previous ones, and it didn't take a healer to know that. Frerin could see it in the way his Da lost weight instead of gained it. In the way he was prescribed bed-rest from the day the pregnancy was discovered. From the way his Da slept all the time and was still tired. Would barely eat, because he couldn't keep food down. . . .  
  
And the reason for all this strife lay in the small bassinet next to the bed.  
  
Da's chilly hand covers Frerin's own and he finds himself looking into Da's weary eyes.  
  
“I'm afraid this will be your last little sibling,” Da says softly, a tear running down the side of his face that he ignores. “I can't have anymore children . . . are you . . . disappointed?”  
  
Frerin thinks of the past nine months . . . of seeing his Da's strength and vitality being drained a little more every day. Of wondering if his father would survive  _this_  pregnancy, as he'd survived the first and the second.  
  
He thinks of a life without his Da to tell him stories about halflings and elves, wizards and men. Of a life without his Da's quiet voice reading to him or with him. Of a life in which all sweetness and warmth—even that which comes from his  _Adad_ , for everyone knows that Bilbo Baggins is Thorin Oakenshield's true heart—is gone.  
  
He thinks of all of that and crumples into his Da's open arms, weeping like he hasn't done since he was Malonna and Thrain's age. Da's arms come around him, as weak as his voice, but sheltering, nonetheless.  
  
“Oh, my big, brave boy . . . shh . . . shh. . . .”  
  
“I'm just g-glad you're alright, Da-da,” Frerin says, reverting to the name he hasn't used since . . . before he can remember clearly.  
  
“Of course, I'm alright, love. I have too much to be getting on with to be anything less than alright,” Da says, laughing a little. “Now, hand me Frodo before he starts  _really_  crying again.”  
  
Sitting up and wiping his eyes with his sleeve, Frerin turns to the bassinet and the squirming bundle within.  
  
He reaches out and gets one hand under his brother's head—the blanket he's swaddled in falls back to reveal a shock of dark curls, made even more shocking by the paleness of the babe and the startling blue of the eyes that stare intently up at Frerin—and the other under his bottom and lifts him carefully out of the bassinet.  
  
Frerin cradles Frodo to him for a few moments—moments during which Frodo actually settles down, his cries and squirming tapering off.  
  
“Hullo, Frodo-lad,” Frerin says quietly, and in that moment, a new place opens in his heart. Frerin wouldn't have thought there'd be room for anymore people in there, but somehow . . . somehow there is.  
  
There's a perfectly Frodo-shaped space just waiting to be occupied.  
  
He kisses Frodo's forehead and the baby lets out a surprised sound that's not quite a cry. “Welcome to the world, little brother.”


End file.
